


A Shocking Habit

by apliddell



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cuddling & Snuggling, Domestic Johnlock, Emotionally Repressed, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Jealous John, Jealous John Watson, John Watson Returns to Baker Street, Johnlock - Freeform, Love Confessions, M/M, Misunderstandings, Oblivious Sherlock Holmes, POV First Person, POV John Watson, Post S3, Post-Mary Morstan, Repressed John Watson, Sherlock's Violin, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-10
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-10-25 21:46:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17733257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apliddell/pseuds/apliddell
Summary: After John walks in on something that surprises him, Sherlock realises that they're approaching a tipping point and has to find the words to get them to the other side.





	A Shocking Habit

It hadn’t been long since I’d seen him. That was the kicker. Not even by our standards. Well. Not really. A week. Maybe a week and a half. A fortnight at the outside. I walked into 221B one night with my arms full of shopping and takeaway. The flat was dark and a bit musty. Sort of over-occupied. The telly was on very low, and I could hear Sherlock’s deep, heavy breathing over it. 

 

“Sherlock? Are you asleep?” I called. “It’s barely gone seven!”

 

The leather on the sofa creaked gently as its occupant shifted, and a scruffy face appeared over the back. It wasn’t Sherlock. 

 

I recognised him as the smackhead lookout Bill Wiggins I’d met when I went looking for Isaac Whitney in that drug den and found Sherlock by mistake. 

 

Wiggins shook his head and raised a finger to his lips, “Shhh. He’s just got to sleep,” he stage whispered. 

 

I nodded and glanced toward Sherlock’s shut bedroom door before moving into the kitchen to set down the bags. I put away the ice cream and the milk, then as I entered the sitting room again, I realised that the deep near-snores were coming from the sofa and not the bedroom. I frowned and opened my mouth, then shut it when I saw that Sherlock was indeed on the sofa. He was deeply asleep on his side, mouth open, his tee shirt and dressing gown pulling to the side to expose his collarbone. He was leaning heavily against Wiggins, who had one arm draped casually about Sherlock’s shoulder. 

 

My chest felt hot and tight, and I took a half step back, “Oh. I. I didn’t erm.” I stuffed my left hand into my pocket, “What. Erm. H-”

 

Sherlock shifted, and I froze. Wiggins looked reproachfully at me, and we both waited to see if Sherlock would sleep on. His deep breathing continued. 

 

“I.” I rubbed my chin. “I suppose I’m. Interrupting. I should.”   
  


Sherlock shifted again. “John,” he murmured without opening his eyes. “John.” 

 

I cleared my throat with a glance at Wiggins, “Yes, Sherlock? I’m here.”

 

Sherlock’s eyelashes fluttered, and he smacked his lips. He opened his eyes and fixed them on me, then smiled, “John. Where did you come from?” He sat up and looked round at Wiggins, “Oh Billy. You’re still here. Sorry about that. I must have dropped off.” Billy. 

 

Wiggins stood up suddenly so that Sherlock sagged onto his side on the sofa, “I’m gonna go.” He turned to Sherlock, “Later, Shez.” 

 

Sherlock nodded, looking a little confused, “See you later, Billy.” 

 

Wiggins shuffled to the door, hitching at his oversized track bottoms, pulled on his shabby coat and slipped out. 

 

Sherlock looked at me, amused, “What have you done to poor Billy?” 

 

Billy!

 

“Me? Nothing! I wasn’t the one asleep on top of him.” I squeezed my fist still in my pocket, and tried not to grind my jaw, “That’d dent anybody’s ego.” 

 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, “Did you come round just to catch me napping, so to speak?”

 

“Bringing you dinner, actually. Since when do I even-”

 

“Only wondering if I’d forgotten an appointment with you.” Sherlock ruffled his hair with a little smirk and stretched luxuriously so that his t shirt rucked up even more, exposing his navel and a line of soft hair leading from it to the waist of his pyjama bottoms. “You seem so annoyed and,” he looked me up and down penetratingly, “Disappointed.” 

 

I jerked my hand out of my pocket, “Why should I be disappointed?”

 

Sherlock shrugged, “I’m sure I don’t know.” 

 

“Well, I’m not!” 

 

“Fine,” Sherlock sucked his bottom lip as if fighting a smile. 

 

“Anyway. I’ve brought dinner. You hungry?”

 

“Famished,” Sherlock sprawled comfortably on the sofa, crossed his ankles and yawned. 

 

“I’ll just get it then, shall I?”

 

He smiled, “If it’s able to walk itself in here, it is a little fresher than I typically care to eat.”

 

“Don’t get up,” I rolled my eyes and went back into the kitchen to get the food. 

 

Sherlock had withdrawn his legs a bit when I came back to the sitting room, leaving room for me to sit beside him on the sofa. I sat down next to him and passed him a carton. 

 

“Thanks,” Sherlock opened the container and tucked in with relish, making appreciative noises as he ate and sucking down pasta noisily. After a bit he paused and looked at me. 

 

“What?”

 

“Have you already had your dinner, John?”

 

“No, I meant to have dinner with you. That’s why I got your favourite.”

 

Sherlock smiled, “So you did. But you aren’t eating.” 

 

“Oh.” I looked down at the food, “I suppose I’m not.” 

 

“Lost in thought?” Sherlock asked round a mouthful. There was a distracting bit of sauce on his lip. 

 

“Er yeah. Suppose so. Erm.” I tucked my left hand under the thigh opposite Sherlock. “I didn’t erm. I didn’t.”

 

“What?”

 

“You and er. You and Wiggins. Hm?”

 

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, “Me and Wiggins?”

 

“I just. Didn’t know.” I shifted on the sofa and coughed into my fist, “You might’ve. Told me.” 

 

Sherlock furrowed his forehead, “Told you?”

 

“Never mind,” I reached hastily for my own carton and tore it open. 

 

“Told you that I had a sleep?” 

 

“Nothing! Never mind, it’s. I’m. Being nosey. Or. Presumptuous or something. Ignore me; I’m just hungry.” 

 

“Please yourself,” said Sherlock, twirling more pasta into his mouth. 

 

I hunched over my own portion and ate silently. Sherlock sank back into the sofa when he was through and presently he fell asleep. He drooped toward the opposite end of the sofa and not against me. Though one of his feet did wander across the sofa to bump against my thigh. I sat in the dark with him, feeling mysteriously guilty. After a few minutes of alternating between watching Sherlock sleep and watching the muted nature documentary, I pulled the blanket off the back of my chair and draped it over him. 

 

“Good night,” I whispered. Sherlock shifted and muttered, though he didn’t call my name again. I let myself out. 

 

I pulled out my phone as I stood on the pavement waiting for a cab, and I had a text from a number I didn’t know. I swiped it open. 

 

_ U should be nicer to him _

 

I frowned down at the text and tried three abortive replies before I deleted it. 

 

…

 

I came around again the next night with a bottle of wine and a pizza. Sherlock was alone when I turned up and lazing his armchair with a pair of safety glasses around his forehead like an alice band and a lab apron tied on over his pyjamas. The flat smelled vaguely chemical, but there was a small fire burning in the fireplace and some quiet string music playing. Sherlock’s sort of atmospheric. 

 

Sherlock smiled when I walked in, “I was just thinking of you.”

 

“Really?”

 

“I’m hungry.”

 

I snorted, “Thanks loads.”

 

Sherlock shed the goggles and the lab apron and ruffled his hair, “Don’t pretend you haven’t been styling yourself my chief provider since we first met, John Watson. You’ve always fed me up.” He had on pyjamas underneath and a suspiciously familiar looking jumper, and he primly neatened his clothes which had got twisted from his attitude in the armchair.

 

“Hmm,” I lingered in the doorway between the sitting room and the kitchen, waiting for Sherlock to follow me. “Sounds nice when you put it that way. Chief provider.”

 

“John,” patiently. “I like you. I seem to recall we’ve been over this. Something about a trip to Bristol and a number of young women in lilac frocks.” 

 

Well that made me feel rather silly, “Come and help me with dinner, then if you’re so fond of me.”

 

Sherlock rose obediently and followed me into the kitchen, but his idea of helping with dinner turned out to be uncorking the wine bottle and pouring himself a glass. He leaned against the worktop and watched me, one bare foot on top of the other against the cold kitchen tile. 

 

“Very helpful, thanks,” I said, getting plates down from the cupboard. 

 

“I don’t know what you’re bothering with all that for. Possibly so you can moan about me never doing the washing up later? You do enjoy complaining,” Sherlock opened the pizza box and selected a slice. 

 

“I think there’s a law against eating without dishes when you’re in your forties. I feel sure I heard something about it on the radio.” 

 

“You break loads of laws with me and this is the one you decide to fuss over,” Sherlock pushed the pizza box at me. 

 

“I think I fuss over most of them, actually. And I don’t know that fussing is the right term,” I took a slice also and my hunger only seemed to sharpen after my first bite. “Get me a glass, will you? I want some of that wine as well.”

 

“You’re nearer to the cabinet,” Sherlock said, poking a rebellious thread of cheese into his mouth. 

 

“But I’m your guest, and you’re in the mood to pretend you’ve got manners.” 

 

“Guest.” Sherlock rolled his eyes but fetched me a glass anyway, “I do think it’s starting to get ridiculous you don’t live here.” 

 

I poured myself a glass of wine and swigged from it before I answered, “Well there is the house.”

 

Sherlock waved the notion away, “So sell it.” 

 

“And use the money to buy you more pizzas.”

 

Sherlock grinned, “Your heart’s true desire and life’s purpose, o chief provider.” He aimed a gentle kick at me. 

 

I had another swig from my wine glass. It made an overlarge swallow and sort of bulged in my throat as it went down, “You really want me back here?”

 

“Obviously,” Sherlock said round a mouthful. 

 

“It wasn’t obvious to me. You never asked.”

 

Sherlock looked up from his second slice, his forehead creased slightly, “I didn’t know I had to. You usually just turn up.”

 

“I sort of thought you might be.” I coughed and reached for my wine glass, but I’d already emptied it. Seemed soon to pour another, “You sure I won’t, er. Cramp your style?”

 

Sherlock frowned at me, “Cramp my what?”

 

“I just sort of.” I shrugged, “Had the impression you might want a bit of extra privacy. Got a bit of a scolding from your. Well. He thinks I ought to be nicer to you.” 

 

“My what? Who does? I really don’t know what you’re being so cryptic about, John. Stop talking around it and just say it.”

 

I willed myself not to blush, but I wasn't sure it was effective, “ _ You’re _ the one being. Oh for god’s- I walked in on you last night, and I assumed you’d rather it didn’t happen again!”

 

“Walked in on me? Walked in on me having a kip on my sofa?”

 

“Walked in on you snuggling with your,” I cut myself off, still not sure how to end the sentence. 

 

Sherlock laughed incredulously, “Snuggling! I wasn’t snuggling with my anything!” 

 

I reached for the wine bottle, “I know what I saw.”

 

Sherlock watched me pour another glass before resuming his protests, “A nap! I didn’t even. Why’re we arguing about this?”

 

“We’re not! Only.” I shrugged. “Maybe you. There’re other people in your life who you feel a bit more. Domestic with. Maybe you’d rather live with him.” 

 

“Trip to Bristol. Lilac frocks.” 

 

“It’s all right,” I made myself say. “It’s. It’s healthy. New. Erm. Experiences. It’s all fine.”

 

“For heaven’s sake, John!” Sherlock reached up to ruffle his hair, then seemed to think better of touching it with his greasy fingers. “I’m not some naive prepubescent who doesn’t know what attraction is!” 

 

“So you are attracted to him, then.”

 

Sherlock opened his mouth, shut it, and passed a hand over his face, “John, I think it would help me to navigate this conversation, if I understood what your ultimate aim is in having it. You don’t have to invent tortured reasons not to come back, if you don’t want to come back. Do you not want to live with me?”

 

“Of course I do!”

 

“Good then,” Sherlock took another slice of pizza. “It’s settled.” 

 

…

 

“Ooof,” I sank onto the sofa and settled back into the cushions, trying to massage my own shoulder. “Let’s not ever do that again. I hate moving house.” 

 

“Suits me,” Sherlock called from the kitchen. “I hate it when you move out.”

 

“I came back!”

 

“Yes,” Sherlock came smiling into the sitting room with two steaming mugs. “So you did.” 

 

“That for me?” I nodded at the mugs in his hands. 

 

“Well not both,” Sherlock sat down next to me on the sofa and offered me one mug. “Greedy.”

 

“Thanks,” I sipped and contemplated a shower. Felt a little odd about the idea of sitting around in my pyjamas afterward, though and it was far too early to say goodnight. 

 

As he does about half the time, Sherlock lost interest in his tea before he’d finished it and got up from the sofa to wander over to his music stand leaving half the mug behind. “Do you mind?” he picked up his violin. 

 

I set my mug down and leaned back to make myself comfortable for the treat, “Not at all. I’ve missed it.” 

 

Sherlock smiled and cradled his violin against his shoulder, then turned toward the window and began to play. It's always a little louder than I think it's going to be. A Bach piece I remembered from before I’d moved out. It was. Homely. I’d missed it more than I realised. I found a book I’d left in the flat ages ago down the side of the sofa, and if Sherlock suspected I was a bit teary behind it, he was too polite to say so. 

 

Sherlock played for a long while, eventually playing a little medley of his original pieces and ending with the waltz he’d composed for our trip to Bristol as he so delicately put it. He caught my eye in my reflection on the sitting room window as the piece ended and held it til the last notes faded from the air. 

 

I cleared my throat, “You still know it by heart.” 

 

Sherlock lowered his bow arm, but still held his violin nestled to his shoulder, “Of course I still know it by heart. I made it for you.” 

 

“I’ve still got the sheet music you left me,” I knew exactly where it was, actually. Could have laid my hands on it in two minutes, even though it was packed with all my worldly possessions in a box up in the little bedroom upstairs. 

 

Sherlock half smiled, still not lowering his violin, “Good. It wasn’t the sort of gift a person hopes to bestow on the. Indifferent.”

 

I picked at a loose thread on the seam of my jeans, “Well I’m not that. I’m definitely. Not that.”

 

“I know,” Sherlock finally put down his violin and came back to the sofa. 

 

“Why did you leave?” I blurted as Sherlock landed next to me. “Early?”

 

Sherlock reached for his lukewarm mug and drank from it, still I noticed that his ears were pink, “It was nearly two years ago, John. Perhaps I had a headache.”

 

“Did you have a headache, though?” I pressed. In for a penny, in for a pound. 

 

Sherlock set his mug aside, “No. I didn’t.”

 

“Then why?”

 

He raised his chin, “Why didn’t you ask me at the time?”

 

I chewed my lip, pressed my fist against my thigh, “I don’t know.”

 

Sherlock sighed and looked away, and when he turned back to me, the pink was spreading from his ears down his neck, “It isn’t too late to ask,” he said quietly. “But it isn’t fair to expect me to do it all on my own.”

 

My mouth was dry, “I.”

 

Sherlock leaned in a little, “Think about what you really want to say. And say it. Most in the world. Remember? You can trust me,” He half raised his hand, then dropped it back to his lap. 

 

I clenched my trembling left hand and shook it, “It’s not about that!”

 

Sherlock cocked his head, “Isn’t it?”

 

“No!” Sherlock drew back slightly and I lowered my voice, “You don’t have to keep reminding me you’re my best friend. It’s not about that! The things I really want to say are. Not the sort of things you say.”

 

“But I’m inviting you to,” Sherlock pressed. “I’ve known you seven years. You can’t shock me, John.”

 

I scrubbed my hand through my hair, “It isn’t about that either, though I wouldn’t let you put money on it. The things. You don’t say them because they’re mental! Because you can’t say. I get so jealous and miserable when I see. You don’t  _ owe.  _ But. It’s. It’s ugly, and it’s sad, and it’s too much, and it isn’t your problem, and I don’t want to dump it in your lap!”

 

Sherlock looked steadily at me while I ranted. His eyes brightened and his flush spread, but he didn’t recoil again. His voice was a bit hoarse when he answered, “That’s why I left. The wedding. Exactly that.” 

 

I was breathing heavily. Not sure when that happened, “Oh.”

 

“Are you sure you don’t. Don’t want me to help you with it?”

 

I tried to go through a breathing exercise I’d got from Ella years ago, “How d’y’mean help?”

 

Sherlock looked at me thoughtfully for a long moment without speaking, “I need to have a think about that. And I think I’d like to change clothes, John. Could you put the kettle on? My tea’s gone cold.”

 

“Okay,” I got up sort of mechanically and took Sherlock’s mug into the kitchen to fix him another cup of tea. 

 

When I went back to the sitting room, Sherlock was taking his place on the sofa again, dressed in his pyjamas and dressing gown. He patted the plump cushion beside him, “Come and sit with me. Help me to think.”

 

I sat next to him, “Okay. How’m I helping?”

 

“You always help.” Sherlock went quiet and shut his eyes, leaning back against the sofa in his characteristic thinking pose with his hands clasped and pressed to his lips. 

 

I leaned on my elbow and grinned, “You just going to have a little sleep on the sofa while I watch?”

 

Sherlock smiled also under his clasped hands but didn’t open his eyes, “Nice to be back together, isn’t it? Under the same roof.”

 

“Yeah. It is nice.”

 

Sherlock opened his eyes and turned toward me, “John. I think. I think I’ve been trying too hard to be clever. Trying to think of a way to do this. Without risk or exposure to either of us. Trying too hard to come up with some perfect plan to avoid discomfort. I’m sorry. I’ve wasted time. I should have known better. I should have known  _ you  _ better.” 

 

That was much more than I expected. I licked my dry lips, “I. You don’t have to." I swallowed, " I'm really trying to be satisfied with what you want to give me. You don't need to push yourself.”

 

“Please believe,” Sherlock reached for me, wrapped his hand round my wrist. The sharp strings of the violin had left imprints behind on his index finger. “That I am not humouring you.”

 

“But. I’ve been stupid and rude and. Shouty. You. I don’t  _ deserve _ .” 

 

Sherlock nodded, “A handful of the many things we have in common.” His grip on my wrist tightened, “Maybe we don’t have to be. Our ideal selves before we admit we’re.” He paused, “Christ, it’s harder than it looks.”

 

I let out a frazzled sort of giggle, “You’re telling me.”

 

Sherlock cleared his throat and tried again, “You are not. Imposing on me, when you let on that you want me. You act like I’m being generous and indulgent; I’m not! I’m being timid and selfish. And I’m sorry. Even now, I’ve made up my mind to just tell you, and.” He paused and took a deep breath. I could feel the exhale on my face when he gusted it out, “I know you’re in love with me. I’m in love with you. And I think. We can stop apologising to each other for that.” 

 

I think probably I was wearing a very stupid smile. I felt light, “What should we do about it instead?”

 

Sherlock leaned toward me, “I gathered the impression somewhere that you’re rather anxious for a cuddle.” He held out one arm invitingly, and I eased myself against him til our torsos met. I was just the right height to rest my head on his shoulder. It made me a bit giddy. He was warmer than I expected through the thin fabric of his t shirt. There was a tang of moving day sweat mingling with aftershave and clothes starch on his skin. I wanted to bury my face against his chest into the homely smell of him, but that seemed a bit much. Sherlock’s arms tightened gradually around me, and it was delicious, exhilarating and grounding and overwhelming. I wasn’t sure where to look. So much joy must have been unseemly rising up to the open like that.  

 

“I don’t know what to do with my face,” I confessed. 

 

“Really?” Sherlock bounced an eyebrow, “No ideas at all?”

 

“Well.” I raised my chin, “One.”

 

Sherlock wet his lips, “Let’s hear it, then.” 

 

I cupped his jaw, and it was so lovely that my hand got rather distracted, wandered into his plush curls and down the back of his neck. I caught a little shiver of anticipation from Sherlock as I danced my fingers down his spine. It was thrilling. I wanted more. But Sherlock’s face went so alluringly soft and eager under my touch that I couldn’t bear to tantalise us any longer. I shut my eyes. I kissed him. 


End file.
